Shopping for Glory
by mailroomy
Summary: a Yuletide2010 story for Doveheart. a boy and his Freudian journey to an end-game. it was only bad because he invited a friend on that journey. silly boy.  warning for: sweary words, unsettling themes, etc etc
1. Chapter 1

_there will always be people shopping for glory. and they will pay it with other people's blood and their country's honour. ~N.N._

**  


* * *

  
**

Was it only last week, he wondered, when he sat on the same table with Reichsminister Goebbels? _In fact, it was closer to three_, his treacherous mind supplied. _How the mighty have fallen_, it mocked.

Mere three weeks ago, he could be found sitting in the very best establishments in Paris, drinking great wine and eating wonderful food. Now, he was choking down some French swill in some rundown tavern in some rundown village. Granted, Propriétaire Eric ran a better tavern than most others. It only took him three weeks to find La Louisiane, he lamented. _At least it's quiet here_, he consoled himself, grateful he didn't have to endure raucous soldiers and their drunken ways. Nadine it seemed, was a place that could kill through boredom and complacency.

He idly watched the barmaid empty his overflowing ashtray before scurrying away. The girl had too-wide smiles, entirely different from the cultured women of Paris.

_Damn that soldier_, he cursed under his breath. _And his damned girlfriend_, he added for good measure. He was bitter, could they blame him?

Private Zoller had somehow found out that he had been less than civil to his girlfriend when he picked her up from her sordid cinema of hers. Having the ears of Goebbels had unhealthily inflated the Private's ego, it seemed. Add to it that Zoller wasn't just any ordinary Private at that, but one who was a decorated war hero, killed more men than Dieter had ever written a report, and most importantly: a hormone-driven Private, not quite out of his puberty, who was madly in love and whose prick was wrapped around a French heifer's little finger.

_Admit it, Dieter_, his overly annoying inner-conscience supplied, _you would've done the same if ever you were to enjoy the same favour_. Only he didn't, which was why he's now in Nadine nursing his bruised ego. Which must surely allow him a certain measure of righteous bitterness.

Surprisingly, it had been Colonel Landa who saw him off at the motor pool and who had tried to console him, albeit half-heartedly.

"Come now, Dieter," the Colonel had said as they waited for a car to be taken around. "It won't be for forever. Favours are easily gained and easily taken away, anyway." A small pause, a smirk. "Why am I telling you this?" he said, with a small wave of his hand. "You already know _that_."

Well, maybe the Colonel was not there just to console him. Probably there on a special errant to rub salt in the wound. He remembered Landa being rude to the heifer, too. "If it helps," the Colonel said instead, as his car arrived and a soldier jumped out to open the door for him, "you can help me dig around. I've heard disturbing things about those pesky English rats. They're up to no good. I can smell it. And the smell comes from Nadine..." A pause, a wrinkling of nose in distaste, "...or thereabouts."

"I will see what I can find out, Colonel," he answered, wondering to himself why he sounded so very pathetic, so eager to believe there's something worthwhile to be done in what amounted to a career exile, so eager to believe that the Colonel actually meant something more than empty platitudes.

"I have no doubt you will."

"_Heil Hitler_!" Dieter extended his arms, clicked his boots together, and saluted before he could lose his nerves, before he could snap at the Colonel and make him stop trying to placate him.

"Yes, yes. Heil Hitler," the Colonel had smiled indulgently as he helped Dieter into the backseat of the car. "Come next year, you'll find yourself back in Paris." _And maybe next time, you'll remember your place_, the Colonel did not say it out loud, but Dieter heard it all the same.

* * *

"More beer, _Herr Mayor_?" the barman asked, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"Why not?" he replied, his beer must've gone stale by now, anyway.

It didn't take Eric too long to bring a fresh glass of beer, too quick even. Eric seemed to be more efficient than most Frenchmen he'd come across and spoke better German than most, too. He should ask, he thought. But he wasn't in the mood, after all, so he merely nodded.

"A good book then, sir?" Eric asked. Dieter had to stop himself from rolling his eyes in despair (though he did wonder why he bothered to be civil at all).

"It's tolerable," Dieter surprised himself by replying. "Like the beer. Tolerable."

"Then, I'm glad."

"And I shall thank you to leave me in peace."

"Of course." Eric seemed to know when he was dismissed. "By the way, care for some cheese?" _Or maybe not_. This time Dieter rolled his eyes, exaggeratedly so, and waved the grinning barman away.

He waited until he could not hear Eric's footsteps anymore before he lifted the glass to his lips, looking down to the book in his lap. He had to let out a small chuckle when he saw the book was upside down. _Yet another surprise_, he realised. His exile had somehow given him the ability to tolerate disrespect and laugh at his own folly. _I'm growing soft_, he concluded. _Undisciplined. Disgusting._

Closing his book, he returned to his thoughts once more, trying to analyse his current predicament in order to (possibly) cheer himself up. "You're not the only one having a bad year." Wasn't that what Colonel Landa told him some three weeks ago (has it really been three weeks? _Mein Gott_).

Then again, not even the Führer was immune to the fickle machinations of time. Ten years ago, no one in their right minds would doubt Hitler's dream for a German empire to last a thousand years. But now? Generals were hired and fired quicker than a whore would find and bed customers, soldiers fighting (and often losing, dying, on multiple fronts), the American had entered the war, and the English rats didn't know when to just roll over and die. The Führer even had to travel to France for a film premiere, so far from Berchtesgaden.

Even here, in a sleepy French village, Dieter could see the soldiers' continuous fidgeting (and not just due to their general incompetence), nerves pulled and stretched to breaking point. So much for a quiet, mind-numbing exile. And he heard that the Basterds were somewhere in the vicinity also. _And Stiglitz will be with them also_, he thought morosely.

* * *

Ten years ago, he would have boxed someone quite squarely in their face for even suggesting that his friendship with one Hugo Stiglitz would crash and burn so spectacularly. That is, if Hugo didn't get to that ignoramus first. But ten years ago, the two of them were naïve and ignorant little shits who had no way of knowing the ways of the world.

_Has it really been ten years?_ It baffled him. He tried to remember the first time he met Stiglitz. Must be early 1930s, he was sure, but for the life of him he could not remember when exactly.

And his thought was broken by a sudden disturbance to what up to now was an acceptable silence. He was about to stand up and yell at the miscreants when Eric appeared, harried and eager to mollify him. "Just soldiers, _Herr Mayor_," Eric started, as if he could read Dieter's mind (maybe he could). "I'll make sure they don't trouble you."

Dieter raised a skeptical eyebrow, to which Eric responded by looking properly chastised. "May I offer you some whisky? We have good scotch whisky. 33 years old, I think you'll find..."

"_Scotch?_" Dieter cut sharply, somewhat pleased to see Eric flinching; pleased to know he hadn't lost _all_ his touch."I can never abide them."

"Beer then?" Eric asked, leaving even before Dieter agreed to anything.

_Scotch_. Dieter cringed, but at least he now knew that Eric was no mind-reader.

The noise from the main tavern floor grew louder as the soldier grew more and more inebriated. They were celebrating, he heard. Something about a newborn. Hopefully the little bugger would only know peace. War, as Dieter found, was too overrated.

Eric arrived with a new glass of beer, when a loud concerted cheer and whoop rose.

"You told me you'll have them under control, Eric," Dieter said disdainfully. "But I hear them getting louder. Or are you unable to keep order in your own tavern?"

"You must forgive them, _Herr Mayor_. It is not every time Bridget von Hammersmark graced us with her presence. The poor soldiers are merely very happy to see her."

"von Hammersmark? The actress?"

"One and the same. Now you see their excitement," Eric finished his statement with a flourish, impudently holding the Major's eyes. "But, as I said earlier," Eric finally said, breaking eye-contact with the Major, "they won't trouble you. Not in _my_ building."

"Fine."

"So." Eric straightened his back, and brushed a non-existent wrinkle on his shirt. "Are you sure you won't try the scotch? I'm pouring one for Fraulein von Hammersmark. On the house."

"No."

Eric shrugged, as if saying that he had tried his best. "They won't disturb you," he repeated.

Dieter merely watched the barman, as though the Frenchman had grown an additional head. He settled back, unable to hide his amazement at how von Hammersmark seemed to be able to indulgently tolerate uncouth remarks. Grandmother Hellstrom would have pitched a fit, possibly (thank goodness she departed when the Earth was still relatively acceptable; leaving behind a husband who grew more and more unbearable, which was an unfortunate thing).

Or maybe von Hammersmark wasn't merely tolerating. Maybe that was how she really was. Rude and uncultured. _How terrible, if it were true_, Dieter mused. He hoped not. He rather liked that woman.

* * *

A young Dieter Hellstrom first met an equally young Hugo Stiglitz one day in November 1933. Not so much as met as clapping eyes from across the hall, one ear on Heidegger's address to the students at Albert-Ludwigs-Universität. Dieter had been sitting near the back of the room, next to his over-eager dormitory-mate. Hugo had been standing, leaning against the wall, looking bored—as bored as he was, too, Dieter suspected.

"Is there a problem?" Hugo had asked as Dieter walked past him at the end of the address. His voice was low, almost incomprehensible underneath the chattering and buzzing around them.

"Problem?" Dieter let himself be taken aside to a quieter corner, Hugo's hand wrapped around his upper arm. For one irrational moment, Dieter feared for his life, at least his physical health.

"You were looking at me the whole time." The hand around his arm tightened. Dieter could feel a bruise forming.

"I thought you looked bored," Dieter replied, proud of himself for not stammering or stuttering. He even held the taller man's eyes steadily.

"This isn't my cup of tea, if you get my meaning. Politics have never interested me." Hugo gave Dieter one final once-over before releasing his grip. Dieter didn't realise he had been holding his breath the whole time, either. "I hope I didn't bruise you too much," Hugo said as Dieter tried to rub the fleeting ache of his upper arm. "I don't like people staring at me."

"I'm fine. It's my fault," Dieter replied, trying to look unperturbed but still taking an unconscious step back. "Staring is rude, I know. My apologies."

"Apologies accepted," Hugo replied sheepishly, though Dieter wouldn't know it from the straight face Hugo always wore. "But only if you'll accept my apologies, too." Hugo added quickly. "For your discomfort."

"Of course," Dieter replied, offering a tentative smile. "No harm done. Look," Dieter said, flexing his arm, giving it a wide flourish. A heartbeat later, and out of an unexplainable whim, Dieter decided to push his luck by offering his hand to shake, "Dieter Hellstrom."

To his astonishment, the grave and sullen man took his hand and shook it firmly. "Hugo Stiglitz." Two words fired like bullets, and the conversation ended.

Dieter had thought that would be that, especially when he finally learnt they shared not one class between them. They didn't even belong to the same faculty. Yet, they seemed to be able to spot each other even in a crowded room. Like all inevitability, they gravitated more and more towards one another. Hugo who couldn't help but buck rules and regulations he did not agree with, and Dieter who couldn't help but be charming; knowingly used his charms as a weapon either to help Hugo into trouble or out of it. A terrible mix, as the university—and by extension, the city of Freiburg—found soon enough.

Looking back, it had been the best years of his life—both of them, triumphant, at the top of the world, unstoppable. Together, they skipped class, plotted mischief, destroyed pubs, bars, and watering holes with their merry-making, chased skirts and collected notches on their proverbial bedposts, cheated people of their hard-earned monies in card games and had gotten lost more than once in the Black Forest (the emergency services had long refused to search for them, unofficially declared, of course. Search and Rescue was their duty, even though the lost ones were better off staying lost).

* * *

The first time they got lost in the Black Forest was because of a film.

_"Hugo, tell me," Dieter had asked, as they sought refuge at the ruins of the , trying to count the stars peeking out through the trees._

_"Tell you what?"_

_"What's so great about King Kong that you need to cross the border to watch it? Illegally and in the middle of exam periods?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"You don't know?" Dieter raised an eyebrow. "Why am I not surprised?"_

_"I heard they have dinosaurs. And a large monkey."_

_"Dinosaurs or monkeys? You can't have both."_

_"This film has both."_

_"Doesn't sound like a good film to me," Dieter replied, idly tracing his finger along a large gash on the floor._

_"It might be good."_

_"How do you know?"_

_"I don't know," Hugo replied, grim and almost too-quiet, his eyes never leaving the small, unappealing fire they made for themselves. "All I know is that it's banned by the Government."_

_Dieter had sat up straighter then, had looked incredulously at his friend, and after a second or two of slack-jawed silence, he laughed. An honest-to-goodness laughter he thought he had forgotten due to the stress of exams. "Banned!" he exclaimed "Of course!" it explained Hugo perfectly. Dieter laughed once more, threw his head back and laughed until his belly ached and tears streamed out of his eyes. "Why didn't you say so!"_

_"Dieter..." Hugo looked at his friend, a bit worried that Dieter had finally taken leave of his senses. He learnt that insanity ran in his friend's family (he had heard rumours, though he had yet to ask)._

_"No~" Dieter drawled. "Say no more!" He laughed and laughed, and Hugo just watched, from across the other side, half-obscured by fire._

In the end, they never did manage to cross over to France. They never did manage to watch this monster monkey and his dinosaur friends (years later, Dieter would read about it, and found himself amazed at the tripe the Americans managed to churn out seemingly without any effort).


	2. Chapter 2

Looking back, he should've known that things could only go downhill from there.

It arrived one dreary, overly hot day. He was sprawled on Hugo's dormitory-room floor, endlessly complaining about the weather when the news arrived.

_"Hellstrom! Here you are, you bastard! I've been looking all over for you. Should've known you're here." It was his dorm-mate, whom he'd rarely seen, ever since he parked himself in Hugo's room—a small cupboard-like room tucked at the end of a hallway like a dirty secret._

_"Well, you've found me, you porcine little prick," Dieter replied, barely moving from his place._

_"Letter for you!" His dorm-mate said, after expelling a put-upon sigh._

_That propelled him to his feet, but Hugo was quicker—out of his bed and pouncing on the letter even before Dieter could take a single step. "Give it to me," Dieter demanded, hand outstretched rather imperiously._

_"A love letter, dear Dieter? Finally. After a long, dry spell," Hugo said, neither his tone of voice nor his face betraying any of his mirth._

_"I doubt it," Dieter scowled, snatching the letter out of Hugo's fingers._

_"I hope it's not from Brunhild."_

_"Because you like her so much." Dieter rummaged Hugo's desk drawer for a letter opener, creating unnecessary mess that he knew would upset his friend._

_"That will be the day, won't it?" Hugo scoffed as he placed his hand over Dieter's, stilling his quest for untidiness. "Merely looking out for a friend," Hugo continued, now placing the letter opener in Dieter's other hand. "You wouldn't know what kind of disease she's carrying."_

_"Oh, **that** Brunhild," Dieter said, releasing his hand from Hugo's clutches._

_"Do you know any other Brunhild?" Hugo asked, amused, as he watched Dieter slice the envelope open with one smooth, practiced motion._

_"No."_

_"So you mean to say that I might be in love with a loose woman?"_

_"I said no such thing." Dieter gave Hugo a small smile. Returning the letter opener on the far-end of the desk, he found himself avoiding Hugo's inquiring eyes, choosing to stare at the open envelope instead._

_"A~nd?"_

_"Maybe I'm saying that you might care for lost lambs like her. That is, despite her promiscuousness." Dieter did not lift his eyes from the envelope in his hands. "You've been quite the bleeding heart these past months."_

_"Helping one bereft girl, a bleeding heart does not make," Hugo replied, rather disturbed that his friend would accuse him of growing a conscience. "It was just the one time. And she was my cousin."_

_"Distant cousin," Dieter corrected. "Very distant cousin." He peered up to examine Hugo who seemed to be very interested in a water stain on the wall. "Extremely dist-" the words died on his lips as Hugo growled at him. "Fine. Avoid it all you want," Dieter smiled indulgently at his friend, lifting both hands in the universal gesture of surrender. "Of course. What can I say? You're one heartless prick."_

_"Are you going to read the letter or not?" Hugo settled back against the wall, propping himself up with a pillow._

_"Fine."_

The letter turned out to be the furthest thing away from a love letter. It was from his grandfather, his mother's father. The patriarch of the Hellstrom family, who had always disdained his daughter's choice of a husband, and who took little Dieter from the Schott flat in Berlin when he was barely a day old, and raised him as a Hellstrom. The very same grandfather who first doted the baby with the most charming smile, before going on to hate the boy who, despite his Nordic colouring, grew to look so much like despicable Herr Schott.

_"He's calling me back," Dieter said finally, slow and bitter._

_"Back to Berlin?" Hugo ventured._

_"Yes," Dieter answered with a harsh bark of laughter. "Apparently my exile is over." He glared down at the letter, hoping that if he stared at it hard enough, long enough, the damn paper would disappear and they could all chalk it up to a severe case of heat-stroke, a mid-summer mirage. Yet, it stayed; no matter how long he and Hugo stared at it._

_He remembered how the silence had suffocated him. He remembered how the dust motes had appeared to mock him as they danced in the light through the little window._

_"I don't **want** to," Dieter finally said. "I don't want it to be over. I used to hate it. Before. Hated him for sending me away from my mother and my sister. But that was before." He didn't dare to raise his head to look at anything other than the letter. Even more so, he didn't dare look at Hugo's direction. "Hugo, what should I **do**?"_

He must've finally lifted his head. The look on his face must've been so pathetic because, oddly enough, he seemed to remember that Hugo had floundered badly. He could almost remember how Hugo's usually pale, stoic face had grown red, all a-fluster, at a loss of what to say or what to do.

* * *

In the end, Hugo did not offer anything but a promise to occasionally write and call. Hugo didn't even see him off at the train station, did not even drop by in the morning of his leaving even though he said he would.

As he was hurried onto the train by an impatient officious-looking old man, Dieter wished that Hugo would miraculously appear by the side of the train, inviting him to one last rule-breaking. It wasn't meant to be.

With the train finally pulling out of the station, he imagined Hugo waiting for him to gather his own courage and buck the rules just this once. But, by the time the train had arrived in Berlin, his sister and mother waiting anxiously to greet him, he had finally convinced himself that he had no choice on the matter. _Like a cowardly cur with his tail tucked pathetically between his hind legs_, he thought he heard Hugo's mocking voice. He hoped stupidly that Hugo would forgive him.

Another two-hour's ride from Berlin Hauptbahnhof, Dieter had finally completed his journey back from his exile. He was met by his grandfather's faithful assistant—a stern-looking woman who couldn't smile. Dieter was informed that his mother, sister, and grandfather were all waiting back at home.

The sky was unremarkable. The city was cold and distant, There was no hero's welcome.

* * *

He found himself standing at the exact same spot, in front of his grandfather's study. _Where it all began_, he thought bitterly, staring at the walnut door in front of his face. The stern woman had told him to wait, whilst she went inside. He did not expect his grandfather to greet him, neither did he expected the old man to treat him any different. And indeed, he received neither.

After a while, the woman stepped out of the study looking sourer than before she went in. She said nothing as she ushered him up the stairs and to his bedroom. Standing just outside the doorway to his old room, the woman informed him that everything's where he'd left them, that no one dared to move a thing (except for that glass of milk you left on the nightstand. "The glass and the milk were thrown away, I hope you have no attachment to that glass."). But nothing looked familiar, though he didn't have the heart to say it out loud.

He did not meet his family until the next morning.

* * *

"You're late," Grandfather Hellstrom declared from the head of the table without looking up. His words the only acknowledgement. His mother and sister were sat to one side gave him a pair of tight smiles and stiff hello-s.

His place by at the other side, across his mother, was already cleared out. No breakfast for those who could not keep to the rules. He nodded slightly to the general direction of his grandfather, and gave his mother and sister a smile (what he hoped would be a sufficiently-bright "I"m glad to be home" smile). He sat down and chose one particularly interesting grain of wood on the surface in front of him.

A small china plate with a small, round bread appeared in his line of sight, stopping just outside his grain's periphery. He looked up and saw his sister smiled as she pushed a butter dish, then a knife, to him. The blade was facing downwards and though butter knives tended to be dull, he and his sister shared a secret glance at the faint line it left.

He sneaked a glance at his grandfather, whose coffee cup was being fussed over by his mother. "Stop staring, whelp," his grandfather said, not lifting his eyes as he shovelled grains of sugar into the murky depth of his thick coffee. "Eat your bread." He tapped his little spoon at the edge of his cup before finally lifting his head, and saw his only grandson for the first time in two years. "And don't forget to thank your sister."

Dieter smiled at his sister and his sister returned it gladly. "Don't be too harsh on him, Father. He's just returned home. Maybe he's tired from his ride," his mother said, as she poured a cup of tea for herself. "Freiburg is so far away from here," she added, looking at her father keenly, showing her disappointment at losing two years of her son's life.

"_Nonsense_! He's plenty of rest last night! He's just as lazy and as uncivilised as that man who sired him. They should have neutered the cur before he could even think to spread his deficiency around." He looked at her daughter, with an upturned chin, challenging her to say something in defense of an absent husband.

"Let it rest, Papa. He's dead. You've _won_," she bit out in response, pushing her chair away from the table, rising to her feet. "I'm done here, I think. Dieter, please eat something," she implored as she avoided Grandfather Hellstrom's unhappy glare.

"Eat!" Grandfather Hellstrom barked, pushing a bread basket with exactly one round soft bread inside. "The last thing I need is for your worthless hide to pass out on Herr Doktor Günther's carpet." He drank down the whole cup in one gulp before lowering it down none-too-gently on its saucer. A small crack formed, as if trying to prove it was what it said it would be. _Stupid saucer_, he would've said if he cared enough, _you'll only be thrown away, discarded. And your effort will all be for naught_. But he didn't care enough, so he quickly reverted his eyes and concentrated on his bread.

* * *

"Quickly."

He looked up and saw his sister, standing with her hands on her hips, hair half up and not-exactly down.

"You're not yet dressed," he commented drolly, instead.

"And you're not done eating!"

"I'm making this silence last."

"Well, it has lasted long enough," his sister folded her arms in front of her and huffed impatiently. "The sooner we can get you meet Günther, get you officially transferred to the University here in Berlin, the sooner we can get away from Grandfather."

"Trading one hell with another?"

"Or would you prefer to skip the meeting with _Herr Doktor_ altogether?" His sister smiled mischievously now. "You know that can be arranged."

"Will it get me exiled back to Freiburg?" He has no intention of being exiled to Siberia. Or Iceland.

"Left a girlfriend in haste, did you?" She asked, jostling him until he dropped his knife to the floor. It bounced off his Grandfather's Aubusson, onto the marble flooring. "Little Dieter, womaniser. Who knew," she grinned impishly.

Dieter merely bent down to pick up the knife, found a sizeable snag on the rug (_who put Aubussons under a dining table, anyway_), a small scratch on his grandfather's marble floor, and he was irrationally content. "I just don't need any more of his brand of punishment." Then, like an afterthought, "And there's no one being left behind in Freiburg."

He was sure Hugo didn't care. Because Dieter knew that he didn't care either. (and his staying up all night trying valiantly, and failing spectacularly at writing a letter to said ex-friend was merely an exercise in closing one door to open another. It had nothing to do with his dreams being constantly plagued by sun rising gently over a pockmarked ).

"Oh, come on, Little Dieter. Don't tell me you've finally succumbed to that old man. After all, what could go wrong? The worst thing for him to do is neuter you, like what he wanted to do to Father."

(His sister, despite having what for Grandfather Hellstrom thought as a misfortune to carry the Schott name, was almost the carbon copy of their mother. Sometimes, Dieter wondered what his grandfather would think, when he laid in bed at night. A Hellstrom woman by the name of Schott and a Schott spectre masquerading as Hellstrom. Then, he decided he didn't actually care).

Dieter was pulled him out of his thoughts by his sister, who roughly hauled him out of his seat, grinning all the while. Pushing him to the door and into his bedroom, she said, "And don't tell me that's not a good thing!"

He pushed her out of his room and slammed the door in her face. It wasn't enough to muffle her voice completely out of his hearing. At the other side of the door he heard her laughing and giggling hysterically, mimicking his voice, saying, "Don't worry, my dear! I am fixed! Fixed I say! No babies! Not a one!" And after a small snort to clear her throat she added, "Imagine that, dear Dieter! Your lady back at Frieburg will appreciate it a lot, I'm sure!"

"_Oh for t-_ There is no lady in Freiburg!" Dieter shouted from inside his room. _Never was, and probably never will_.

"If you say so!" Dear sister wasn't about to relent. "Just be quick, Dieter! Or Grandfather will chew you out for sure!"

* * *

By the time he arrived in front of Dr. Hans Günther's desk, he had been ready to throttle his grandfather and spit tobacco pulp into that smug, evil face. Instead, he had smiled dutifully at the old man, accepting the proffered cigarette with some grace (if he may say so himself). Sat half a chairleg behind his Grandfather, and next to his sister (who sat next to his mother), he had even listened rather attentively to two men reminiscing about the past. Mostly revolving around a certain Lundborg, whom Dr. Günther knew professionally (the Swede was Günther's mentor) and Grandfather Hellstrom knew personally (a long time ago now).

The men gossipped like old biddies in the market, unaware of the unappreciative audience of three behind them. Dieter had new-found respect for the women-folk though, as they were able to look politely interested. He knew that eugenics, race biology and ethnology were of little appeal to both his mother and sister. If he looked closely enough, he would be able to catch the little impatient twitches in their face muscles, minutely contorting their face this way and that. A split second later though, they would be back smiling as sweetly as spring meadows.

Not possessing the same ability to weather boring functions gracefully (though he swore he would practice, knowing that it would be a useful ability to have), he contented himself by watching how light filter through the high windows of the room, illuminating Dr. Günther's head under his thinning hair. Dieter thought how odd it looked, wondered whether academicians all shared the same odd shape. He realised he had no answer to this sudden question, wondering at the absence of an answer. Surely he'd seen some very studious, bookish academicians back at Freiburg. Did Heidegger, for example, had the same oddly-shaped head topped with pithy strands of hair? He couldn't remember. Possibly because he spent more time being out of class than being in it.

He tried not to think about Hugo.

* * *

He made two more similar visits to Dr. Günther's office (both times without the womenfolk. Grandfather Hellstrom declared that male-bonding and -reminiscing shouldn't be witnessed by the gentler kind). He had now learnt that although Dr. Günther was less than fifteen years his senior, Dieter would never have guessed. He looked so old, maybe because of all the thinking he did. Each of these visits, too, ended up with him arse-drunk, mercilessly insulted by the two older men. Thankfully he would pass out completely before he could listen to more of the tripe these old men were loudly discussing.

"How I come to have such a weak grandson I'll never know," Grandfather Hellstrom would say. "Must be all those diseased blood passed down by that useless father of his. Contaminated sperms. This is why, Herr Doktor, why I very much agree with my old friend Lundborg. Clean them up, I say."

"But more importantly, Herr Hellstrom," Dr. Günther would add, after downing another bellyful of alcohol and ordering the same, "this is why our womenfolk should not be allowed too much freedom. Freedom, of course, but to a certain point. Beyond that, I fear they wouldn't know what to do with themselves. Prone to making embarrassing errors not befitting of upstanding female members of the civilised society."

"That I fear, is a folly I regret all my life," Grandfather Hellstrom would reply, a flash of self-serving remorse that would've made Dieter so ill he would have to drown his lungs in vomit. Thankfully, he was usually dead to the world by this time, his blood replaced by beer. "But sometimes, when I look at her, and see her mother's face, my resolve crumbles. The only child my dear wife ever bestowed upon me. Corrupted. By a dog of a man."

"And your grandson? What about him?"

"Well." There would be an awkward pause, as the two man gazed puzzlingly down to the boy sprawled on dirty flagstones under their bar table. "He did have the most unfortunate luck of resembling that sack of shit. But he is a Hellstrom. And he will grow up to be one. I fear I grow sick of the disappointments in life."

"Of course," Dr. Günther would offer a kind word to his senior. "Sometimes it would take a child longer time to grow into their better genes and to purge the lesser ones completely out of their system. I could recommend you some gene purifying therapies. Most remarkable, Herr Hellstrom..."

And when Dieter finally woke up, tucked into his own bed with his mother hovering quiet worriedly, he found out that yet another part of his life had already been decided for him.

* * *

The new academic year found a sullen Dieter Hellstrom trying not to avoid giving himself humiliating injuries by stumbling over construction debris, or being crushed by a falling tree. The construction work on the Nord-Süd Tunnel had picked up speed, almost feverish in their zeal to finish just in time for the Summer Olympics, creating hazards along the way. The noise levels had risen too, Dieter absently noted. He could hardly hear himself think as he navigated the distance between the University and the Hotel Adlon, with a detour to the Library for some non-book related flash rendezvous. Now, he was late.

He imagined that his Grandfather already had a lengthy diatribe waiting for him. It would be unlikely for his Grandfather to berate him outright, though, possibly waiting until they reached home before herding him into that horrid study with terrible ventilation. At the Hotel, they would be taking tea and possibly dinner with Dr. Herman Lundborg and his esteemed wife. Grandfather Hellstrom had been entirely too excited, hoping to trot out his well-turned out family and put on a good showing. And the old bastard wasn't above threats, either, as Dieter personally found out yesterday evening. His ears were still ringing, and it had nothing to do with construction work noises.

It didn't mean that he shouldn't still come up with a plan, or at least an excuse. He looked up briefly from his intent examination of pockmarked pavements underneath his thankfully still shiny shoes. It was only briefly, too, to gauge the distance and the time still left for him to think up something good (and if not something particularly good, then something clever). But brief lapses of concentration, as Dieter would always remember since then, led to disastrous consequences. This time, tripping over a misplaced block, sending him, his books, and his best day clothes into a moist-dusty patch.

Before he could kiss the earth and gain a bruise, though, he was rescued. Roughly and unceremoniously, with a vice-like grip around his upper arm, coupled by a harsh yank that could've torn his arm from its socket, but which thankfully didn't.

"Thank you," he started, as he straightened himself, blinking his eyes rapidly to chase away the starbursts collecting under his eyelids.

"You're welcome," the stranger replied, a trace of amusement coloured a familiar timbre.

_Hugo_.

His eyes regained his focus at the exact same time as his body regained its balance and his ears finally free from the annoying ringing. _Too bad_, Dieter thought. Now he couldn't pretend he did not hear his name tumble out from that pair of lips attached to that very familiar face.

"Hello, Dieter."


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn't that the world had gone still as that it had gotten more complicated in the span of a few minutes. Dieter took a few deep breaths, before straightening himself up. There were many things that he wanted to say, all of them racing to be the first thing uttered. He had to consciously make an effort so none of them get said; and he realised belatedly that it made him look like a landed fish.

He tried to console himself, that making a fool out of himself was much better than uttering the wrong, unsalvageable words. He had many practice in making an arse out of himself and those around him, he thought.

So, Dieter tried to focus on other things, anything to keep his turbulent thoughts away from the infuriating man standing so close to him. All of his library books had missed the small mud puddle, although his notebook wasn't spared. He noted small ruddy mud-drops at the bottom of his trousers. His shoes held less polish than it was before. He hoped his Grandfather wouldn't notice. No sense in giving the old man more ammunition to hurt him.

He crouched down to collect his belongings, but even though his knees complied, his hands refused to move, hovering mere inches away from the nearest book. It was as if he had no control over his own body anymore.

Hugo had crouched down with him. But unlike Dieter, he found no trouble in collecting Dieter's book for him. _As efficient as always_, Dieter mused, watching Hugo building a small neat stack of books in the crook of his left hand. Once done, Hugo hauled himself up, books and all, before offering his free hand to Dieter. "What are you doing down there?" It was light and amiable, even with a small hint of a smile, which galled Dieter entirely.

Dieter did what any wounded animal could: slapped the offered hand away (quite violently too, upon further reflection later that night). He stood up, perhaps too quickly, and had almost fell down again. Hugo instinctively lunged forward, just in case Dieter decided on a repeat falling down performance (this time backwards, instead of pitching forwards), but his movements was awkward because of all the books he was holding.

Dieter was glad he didn't fall this time. It would be more humiliation he couldn't bear taking just right this moment.

"You're quiet today," Hugo remarked, as he transferred the books back to Dieter. He couldn't stop himself from patting the topmost book in a parody of fondness. "I thought you'd be happy to see me."

"What are you doing here?" Dieter asked, finally.

"Helping you?" Hugo answered with amusement.

"No. _Here_. Here as in Berlin."

"For..."

"Actually, I don't think I want to know," Dieter cut in quickly, already sidestepping his old friend who was blocking his way. "I'm late," Dieter added later. "My grandf..." he stopped himself in time, his jaws snapping together. He felt stupid.

"I know," Hugo said as he matched Dieter's strides.

"You know _what_, exactly?" Dieter asked, keeping his eyes firmly on the path in front of him. There's no way he was going to fall down again. And there's no way he was going to look at that face ever again.

"I know..." Hugo started, but didn't finish. Instead, he hummed as though he was deep in thought. Which Dieter knew he wasn't. Dieter also knew other things, like how it was time to resign himself to the fact that he couldn't escape Hugo easily.

Dieter picked up his pace and wasn't surprised that Hugo matched it easily. Dieter hoped for silence all the way to Adlon. He also wished that Hugo would get bored and leave him to his peace. He had the sinking feeling that he would get neither.

"I saw your grandfather," Hugo said, confirming once and for all that wishes were never horses for beggars to ride. Or fuck. Or whatever it was that beggars do to horses these days. Eat them, probably.

"You saw my grandfather?" Dieter felt as if he was physically wrestling his head not to turn to look at the man. He knew Hugo wouldn't be smiling or doing anything smug, but it still felt that way to him. "No, don't answer. You saw... you _know_ my grandfather?"

"Well. Fine. At least I think I saw some man who looked like you. Well, like you, if you were much older."

"Then, it wouldn't be my grandfather," Dieter bit out. "I look nothing like my grandfather." _And my grandfather resented me for not looking like him enough,_ he didn't say.

"Then, he wouldn't be your grandfather," Hugo repeated dutifully. A dozen steps. "But someone at the Hotel called him 'Herr Hellstrom'. And I heard 'Herr Hellstrom' complaining about how his grandson was always late. And don't tell me I need my ears checked. My hearing has always been better than yours."

Dieter sighed. "I wasn't always late. It's just... Fine, maybe you saw my grandfather. And though you might not be _deaf_, you still need to have your eyes checked. I look nothing like him."

"You look nothing like him," Hugo parrotted.

"And your hearing isn't better than mine."

And my hearing isn't better than yours."

"And you're sorry," Dieter decided to push his luck.

"And I'm sorry," Hugo said. A dozen steps. Then, another half-dozen. "What am I sorry for?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Family things."

They fell silent once more. Dieter wanted to ask many things, to talk about many things, but he didn't know where to start. Should he ask why Hugo didn't reply? But that sounded too weak, even for him. Should he welcome Hugo to Berlin? But why should he? Should he ask where Hugo was staying? But maybe that would sound too desperate. Should he invite Hugo to tea sometime? But that would mean that Dieter wasn't angry or disappointed at Hugo. Because Dieter was angry _and_ disappointed. How many months had it been? What gave Hugo the right to walk into his life after seemingly wanting nothing to do with it? _Stop it, Dieter. You're starting to sound like a girl._ Dieter had to snort back a bitter laugh. His conscience sounded very much like his grandfather.

* * *

In the end, the walk to the Hotel wasn't as torturous as Dieter expected it to be. Yet another proof that he had been wise not to have a girlish mental breakdown in the middle of the street in front of the person he thought he knew but probably never had. _Keep your eyes forward,__ Dieter reminded himself. __Just a little bit more. Don't falter now._ He just had to say goodbye, then cross the street. Then he could wake up from this bizarre dream.

"Well, this is me, then," Dieter said, keeping his eyes fixed at the front entrance of the hotel. "Thank you for walking all the way here with me," he added. He might be confused about this predicament he's in, but he was anything but impolite.

"I'll accompany you inside."

"No, I think I can manage, thank you."

"I know you can manage."

"Then, you'll understand that I need no escort." He should cross the road now. He should not stay for a second longer, just in case he lost his will and did something he would regret.

"I know you don't need an escort. But I still need to get to the Hotel. I think I left what I need back in the room."

"_You're_ staying at the Hotel?"

Instead of answering, Hugo just smiled. It wasn't a big smile, because Dieter didn't think Hugo could break into a face-splitting smile anyway. But it was oddly triumphant. "You're finally looking at me," Hugo added. And Dieter realised belatedly that he was no longer looking at any door of any hotel, but a face that he had no wish to see.

"You can't possibly _afford_ Hotel Adlon!" Dieter knew he could've phrased it better, something more diplomatic. Indeed, he would have done so in the past. But this wasn't in the past. He made the effort not to apologise.

"I should be offended, shouldn't I?"

"You should do what you think is best."

"Stop playing the wronged woman, Dieter. It doesn't become you at all."

Dieter merely glared. He did not trust himself to speak, because he had the suspicion that whatever he would say at this moment in time, he would sound like many-a-wronged-woman who lived before him.

"I apologised, didn't I?" Hugo asked, gently manoeuvring Dieter by the elbow, crossing the half-quiet street to the Hotel. "I did say I was sorry."

"You were just repeating what I said," Dieter retaliated. _Wonderful. Instead of sounding like a wronged woman, I now sound like a whinging snot-nosed brat_.

"Doesn't mean I didn't mean it."

They stood on the curb. Only a few steps left. And indeed the doorman was already looking at them expectantly, one white-gloved hand waiting to yank the door open to let them in.

"We're here," Dieter supplied unhelpfully.

"Indeed we are."

"I should go in."

"Indeed _we_ should."

"We should meet."

"I shall be waiting for you in the lobby. So you can tell me in great detail, I'm sure, what an arse your grandfather was all through lunch." They stepped inside, ignoring the professionally polite welcomes by the hotel staff.

Dieter nodded stiffly in acknowledgement. He didn't trust himself to say something as small as a 'see you again'. He didn't let himself believe that Hugo would be where we said he would be.

"And I can't wait to hear you whinge about the hell he'd put you through all these months. Your letter didn't elaborate."

Dieter pretended not to be surprised. Instead he busied himself with the man who helped relieve him of his books and who took his coat for him. He had other things to worry about, immediate things like his Grandfather, and lunch, and school. He didn't have time to reminisce the past. He shouldn't.

* * *

The view from the windows told him that the sun had set. Dieter allowed himself to stop in front of one of the windows—someone had put a lot of effort to cleaning the glass, he noted absently. It was pitch black, a dead moon's night. The streetlights didn't help.

"You're right."

"About what?" Dieter watched as Hugo's reflection appeared. And there he was, standing behind Dieter.

"I can't afford Hotel Adlon," Hugo said. "But I'm not here on my own expense," he quickly added, as if to qualify.

"I'm sorry," Dieter said, averting his eyes from the window, from looking at Hugo. "I was rude."

"You're just trying to get me mad at you."

"It doesn't excuse me from being rude to you."

A small bark of laughter jolted Dieter out of his contemplation of a tiny speck of dust hanging stubbornly to the corner of the windowsill. He looked up and saw window-Hugo's amusement. It might just be the distortion of glass and faint light, but Dieter had to wonder whether their shadow-selves were more honest than they could ever be.

"What?" Dieter asked, annoyed that Hugo was laughing. His remorse had been sincere, now he wondered why he bothered.

Hugo's reflections raised his hands in surrender. "I didn't mean to laugh," he said. "But, two apologies in less than a minute?" The amusement left, replaced by concern. "Are you all right?"

Dieter scowled. If he disliked being teased, he hated pity. Especially pity coming from Hugo. He let out a long sigh before turning away in search of a vacant seat. It was easy to find. There was even one that faced a dead fireplace, so he needn't sit face-to-face with anyone, especially Hugo.

"I saw your grandfather leave. With your mother? And... sister?"

Dieter nodded.

"But I didn't see you. I didn't see you come out. You didn't come out for a long time."

It took Dieter by surprise. The lunch ended a long time ago; a few hours, at least. He could confidently say that the sun was still up when 'goodbyes' and 'see you soons' were exchanged. He had asked to be excused so that he could relieve himself. His grandfather had reminded him to hurry up or they'd leave him. He had deliberately locked himself in the gent's, and had fell asleep. _What kind of a coward am I?_ And Hugo had waited all that time? "Did you think he had me killed then served as steak to distinguished patrons?"

"Don't flatter yourself. You're too thin to be served as steak, Dieter." They both laughed. Well, maybe not laughed. Just a little chuckle.

Dieter must admit that it felt somewhat liberating. His grandfather hadn't killed him outright, but it still felt as if the old bastard's trying to suffocate him mentally. Death by stress. It could happen.

"You're thinner than I remembered."

Dieter knew it was a genuine concern. And because it was genuine, it was extremely disconcerting. "You said you're here for a family thing. What family thing?"

It was an obvious sidestep without any finesse whatsoever, and Dieter was unexplainably glad when Hugo decided to play along. "Grandparents," Hugo had started. "I'm packing up my grandparents' flat."

"Here? In Berlin?"

"Not exactly here. Actually rather far from here."

"Then what are you doing here?" Dieter asked, before he could stop himself.

"We're back to that again, are we?" Hugo didn't sound so happy now, and Dieter had to remind himself that apologising wouldn't be prudent. It would be so... Un-Dieter-like.

"You _were_ on student housing subsidy, Stiglitz."

"You don't need to remind me, _Herr Hellstrom_. I did live inside a cupboard, remember? Barely big enough to accommodate a proper bed, I seem to remember you saying so. Though I also remember how you spent a lot of time in my _subsidised_ room."

"I'm sorry."

Of all reactions to his apologies, Dieter did not expect a roar of laughter. He did not even know that Hugo could laugh that loudly or that openly. It garnered some disapproving looks from the Hotel's more stuck-up patrons, too. "Oh, Dieter! Your grandfather must've messed you up bad! Three! _Three_ apologies in less than an hour. Shall we bet on how many apologies I could wrangle out of you tonight?"

Dieter had the decency to blush, which seemed to amuse Hugo even more. Clearing his throat, he waited for Hugo to calm down.

* * *

"I thought you're from Frankfurt," Dieter remarked, as he opened then closed an empty drawer. Hugo's grandparents' flat was mostly empty. The larger things, like furniture, had been taken away some time ago. So far they've only found a saucer behind the sink in the small toilet, and Hugo's grandmother's undergarment ("My grandmother embroidered all of her things with her initials," Hugo had said, as he pointed at faded pink-threaded initials sewn onto that yellowed slip of cloth. It was nothing much, really, well-worn and almost unremarkable. Dieter thought off-handedly that it was still a bit more daringly-cut than any owned by his mother or sister).

"I am. As are my parents. My grandparents, from my father's side that is, lived in Berlin all their lives." Hugo stood at the threshold of his grandparents' bare room, with bare walls and bare floors, with cracks like black thunder, with mould and watermarks like rashes and the plague. "Though they didn't live for very long."

Dieter had finished checking through his part of the flat, which wasn't much to begin with. He stood beside his friend as Hugo contemplated whether to leave the door open or close it, his fingers hovering over the discoloured doorknob. In the end he left the door as it was, turning to cross the short hallway (though Dieter disagreed that it should be called a hallway. More like a piece of floor separating one room and another).

"This is where I was born. My father, her sister too," Hugo pushed the door fully open, revealing a small room not unlike the small room back in Freiburg. "My father took my mother and me to Frankfurt when I was three. Then to Freiburg at twelve."

"So that's how you received your odd little accent," Dieter said as he stepped ahead deeper into the room. Two small steps were all it took for Dieter to reach more than three-quarters of the room. Thankfully though the breadth of the room was a bit more encouraging.

"You _lie_," Hugo stated, moving inside the room to stand next to Dieter. They watched the tree that had grown up to the small window.

"Me? Lying?" Dieter chuckled. He gave Hugo a light pat on the shoulder, leaving his hand there for a moment too long. "Of course I lied. I've always thought you had the most charming German accent. Far superior than any regional accent. Even Berlin."

"And now, you're just mocking me."

"Far be it for me to flatter you!" Dieter finally took his hand away. "You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if I do."

When Hugo did not laugh with him or made any noise acknowledging what he said, Dieter turned around to find Hugo staring into space, as if lost. "What is it?" Dieter asked. Wondering which lines he had crossed now.

"Nothing."

"And who's lying now?"

"This is the first time I have been back here in a long time," Hugo finally replied. "I don't remember ever returning here at all."

Dieter was relieved he didn't have to beat the truth of out his friend. He'd probably lost anyway. Berate. Pester. Yes, maybe pestering. "But surely you've been taken to visit your grandparents from time to time."

"I don't remember. I think. Maybe. But I was very small when they both passed away."

"What happened to them?" Dieter asked, glancing at Hugo before lowering himself to sit on the dusty floor. Clothes he could wash. But he drew a line on leaning against the wall. Dieter had to wince when Hugo did exactly that, leaning against a large hideous-looking mould. Hugo seemed oblivious, however. "You don't have to tell me."

"They died one after the other, less than a week apart. Old age. No illness that wasn't common to old people. Some said poison but the coroner overruled that. Some said suicide, which no one in the family would believe. The coroner overruled that, too."

"Love killed them," Dieter said. A split second later he realised what he had said and was horrified.

Hugo lifted his eyes from the ground and fixed it upon Dieter's flabbergasted face. "Aren't you a closet romantic, dear Dieter?"

"It's not funny," Dieter said, huffing, scowling at his friend. "Merely a momentary lapse of judgment. Trust me, it won't happen again."

"Tante Frida said the same thing," Hugo said, as he let his head fall back sharply, rewarded by a dull thud against the wall. This time Dieter was pleased it was a clean patch of wall. (_Well, clean-ish_).

Tante Frida was the lady whose husband owned the vineyard that grew along a patch of land on Freiburg's slopes. Dieter didn't know that Tante Frida knew Hugo's family for a long time. He thought Tante Frida was one of those comfortably-incomed ladies who took in strays.

"Well, you're not wrong there. She would say that, wouldn't she?" Dieter said, smiling. "I remember her. Tante Frida was rather nice by letting us eat most of her best grapes. I couldn't imagine her being so nice if she didn't like us at least a little bit, even..."

"Not us," Dieter interrupted. "You. Because she likes you."

"What?"

"If she didn't like us, you said. Then I said 'not us'. She likes you. Not me. She tolerates me because I'm the friend of her beloved stray."

"Not _just_ a stray."

"What?"

"Not just any stray," Hugo repeated. "I'm her nephew," he said, this time uttered so softly Dieter wasn't sure he heard Hugo right.

"Her nephew?" Dieter asked and Hugo nodded. "You never said."

"I thought you knew!"

"How am I supposed to know anything when no one tells me anything?" Dieter said, exasperatedly.

Hugo let out a heavy, frustrated sigh. "In any case, I was just trying to say that if Tante Frida doesn't like me, or you, together or separately," Hugo said, taking care to put in all the qualifiers (if only just to shut Dieter up for a moment or so). "...do you think she would've let us off just like that?" He snapped his fingers, watched the small disturbance of air sent dust motes careening off its leisurely descent.

"Why didn't she help you get a bigger dormitory room?"

"She wanted to. I wouldn't let her. We actually had a huge row about it. She finally relented when I told her about the room I'll be staying in, and how great it would be not having a dorm-mate. Only, I didn't expect someone parking himself in the room quite like you did."

Dieter thought back to his days in Freiburg, of clear blue skies and wondrously warm sunny days. And of gorging oneself with sweet grapes until he sicked up in Tante Frida's vineyard. Of hikes and adventuring, and soaking swollen ankles in the street canals. Clearly he had selected the wrong type of memories, because those merely underlined how deprived he was here, back in Berlin, where the people built endless stone monstrosities, cutting down trees, and gouging ugly holes on streets.

"I'm sorry I didn't see you off at the station that day," Hugo offered, knowing that an answer from Dieter wouldn't be forthcoming. "Right!" He climbed up to his feet, instead, and dusted off his trousers. "I think we're done here."

* * *

Since Hugo had driven them to the flat, Dieter would drive them back to the Hotel. Hugo wouldn't have minded driving both ways, as it was his plan all along, but Dieter had insisted. Hugo relented without much struggle because he also secretly hoped that Dieter wouldn't talk so much while driving. It was difficult driving in daylight, with hidden turns and false exits.

"You're not here to 'pack up' the flat, are you?" Dieter asked, proving to Hugo that one don't usually get what one hoped for.

"No."

"It has nothing to do with my letter either, I suppose."

"No." Hugo had the decency to look away.

"So?"

"Tante Frida has some business in town."

"How long?"

"She had to go back to Freiburg this morning."

"But you're staying?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"A week, at least."

"Permanently?"

"I don't know."

"You'll be staying at the Adlon for the whole week?"

"Seeing that it has been paid until the end of the week..."

"We..."

"Of course. I'll help you skip class. We'll think of something."

"Are you skipping class, now?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you are."

"Then you might be right."

"So, will we go to France this time? We didn't manage it the last time, did we?"

"No. We ended up lost in the Forest instead, remember?"

"After I left. Did you..."

"No."

"So, to France?"

"Maybe. But it's awfully far from Berlin."

"We can always stop by Frankfurt."

"Why?"

"Pay your parents a visit?"

"They're dead. That's why I moved to Freiburg."

"Then we'll visit their graves."

"Maybe."

"There's no flat to... pack up... in Frankfurt?"

"It was a rented flat."

"I'm sor... that is to say... Ah... Do you think they'll still be showing King Kong? In France? When we finally get there?"

"I don't know. It's been years."

"That it has."


	4. Chapter 4

Hugo stayed at the Adlon the whole week and Dieter stayed there with him the whole time. It was almost like the old times again, with a bigger room and better service. There had been a small argument at the beginning regarding sleeping arrangements, but once demarcation lines had been drawn, they moved on to better things.

There was the promised skipping of classes, and sightseeing, and adventuring. But Hugo wasn't always free to go anywhere he liked, as he still had errands to run in Tante Frida's stead. Dieter went with him most of the time, finding out that Tante Frida was quite well-connected in Berlin.

Dieter couldn't always skip classes, and he couldn't refuse when Dr. Günther asked to see him at his office (which was more than once). Hugo took this opportunity to visit his grandparents' flat and reminisce. In a few month's time, it would belong to someone else.

"You're selling it?" Dieter had asked, as they prepared to bed down.

"Tante Frida is."

"Well, I suppose there's no sense letting it stand empty for years. Better for someone to use it. I'm surprised it's still in a good-enough condition, all things considered."

"Tante Frida has some maintenance thing arranged for it."

"So come next year you won't be able to visit it anymore."

"Maybe earlier than next year." Hugo turned down the sheets and climbed in, lying on his back, with his hands under his head. "I saw them today, the people who'll be buying the flat. They came around with the agent Tante Frida appointed. And before you ask, no, I didn't get to talk to them. A small family. One child. A girl. I was just leaving when they arrived."

Dieter mumbled some unintelligible noises from the sink, where he was brushing his teeth vigorously.

"They looked like they need the place. But..." Hugo sighed. He had some issues with letting go, and sometimes it made him irrational.

Sensing the uneasy silence from the bed, Dieter rushed through his night-time grooming, dropping his toothbrush carelessly on the side of the sink. "You don't want them to buy it."

"Not really, no."

"Do you want to live in it?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Well, maybe you can ask Tante Frida to unsell the house. Take it off the market. Give it to you instead."

"You can do that?"

"What? Taking it off the market, or giving it to you?"

"Both," Hugo replied after a short time pondering. He was quite sure that 'giving the flat over to him' wouldn't be much of an issue seeing that Tante Frida had already insisted that the money should go to Hugo once they've sold it. But that family looked happy with the flat. It would take a lot of work to make it habitable again, safe for a child and all that. He only needed it for the memory.

"Well, people unsell their homes all the time. It's more complicated if the family has paid some money to secure your grandparents' flat, but it's not impossible," Dieter went on, pushing Hugo away from the middle of the bed, and climbing into bed next to Hugo. "I think you living in that flat is a good idea. I like having you around. It means that you'll have to move out of Freiburg."

"You're getting ahead of yourself, there," Hugo said, placing a pillow between them. "Line."

"Well, sometimes I can't help the way I sleep."

"Line," Hugo repeated grimly, before turning of the table lamp on his side.

Dieter grumbled goodnaturedly before he turned his lamp off, too. It was easier to hide in the dark, anyway. "You're going back to Freiburg tomorrow? You can stay with us. There's a spare room next to mine. Or you can have my room. We can share. It won't be like the dormitory, or like the hotel. You'll have to put up with my grandfather and learn to only strangle him in your dreams. But my mother and sister are wonderful."

"Do I have to share a bed with you if I do stay over?"

"Well, you're always welcome to the floor."

"You always had the floor, Dieter. I always get the bed."

"Not in my room, you won't. And before we revisit the argument of five days ago, no, I'm not going to sleep on the floor here. I know you slept on the floor when Tante Frida was here. But, you're not Tante Frida. And I'm not you."

"But I think I should really return to Freiburg."

"You should do what you think is best."

* * *

In the end, Hugo moved into the spare room next to Dieter's room and wrote a letter to Tante Frida that he wouldn't be returning to Freiburg this week after all. Maybe next week, or at the end of the month. A week later, a reply arrived from Tante Frida, her amusement was apparent in every sentence written in that looping script of hers. She told Hugo that she had cancelled the sale of the flat, and it was easy because no one had put an offer on it yet. Hugo's welcome to start doing some work on it if he wanted to. She'd be happy to appoint some builders to make the flat good again. However she had the feeling Hugo wouldn't let her do that.

She wrote that she had arranged to have his academic marks transferred to Berlin, and he should be able to pick up where he left off with little problem (because he was a smart boy). It would take a week or two, but she knew that Hugo wouldn't the slightest bit bothered about it.

"A smart boy! Little Hugo is a smart boy indeed," Dieter guffawed as he read the letter not-freely given. Hugo merely scowled. "This means we will have more time plotting our way down to France," Dieter said, thoughtfully.

"Why are you so obssessed with France, anyway?"

"No reason," Dieter said, as he folded Hugo's letter along its creases and handing it back to its rightful owner. "We must get ready, I think. My dear sister will be mad if her escorts aren't ready by the time she is. It will be a long day, Hugo, so you best wear your most comfortable clothes and shoes."

"Where are we going?"

"You shall see, but really, no one does shopping like the Hellstrom women."

* * *

Hugo learnt many things over the next one week or so. He learnt that universities were similar either in Berlin or Freiburg, in that they taught absolute shit. He learnt about Hellstrom women's shopping prowess, as Dieter had predicted. He also learnt why Dieter's sister was a Schott and Dieter was a Hellstrom.

It was Hugo who asked. Hugo had been sent to meet the mailman by the door and he had been tasked to distribute the mail. There was one for him, from the University (a big package which made his joining the University here an official one) and there was one to Elise Schott.

"You didn't know?" Elise asked him as she accepted the letter, a small letter at that.

"No, I just assumed every one here's a Hellstrom. Well except the help and myself, that is."

"And I'm glad that you don't think yourself as help around here. Dieter was worried. He said you're being too cooperative. He really doesn't want you to think that, you know..." She let her sentence trailed off, shrugged one elegant shoulder, a silent apology on behalf of her odd little brother.

"Sometimes Dieter had the oddest thought. It's fine. I learn not to take anything to heart. Well, most of anything."

"That is good, then," Elise smiled. "Now. You were asking? Ah yes. My father was a Schott."

"You have different fathers?" Hugo asked. Because the alternative was to ask whether she was adopted, or a widow. And neither sounded very polite.

"No, we're really siblings," Elise replied, the look on her face told Hugo that she'd been asked the same question before. "Tea?" she offered and he declined.

* * *

__

Four year old Elise Schott had looked forward to a wonderful summer with her parents—well, her mother at least, because her father was often unavailable, and she wasn't too fond of her grandfather. It was still winter though, but her mother assured her that Summer would arrive before she knew it. Elise thought her mother was lying because it felt really far away.

_At the end of winter, her mother took her to a place where all the flowers bloomed and told her that it was Spring. Soon, it would be Summer. Her mother looked fatter too, and she told her mother that. Elise was surprised when her mother took her hands and placed it on her big belly. Elise was told that Summer would also give her a brother. Elise decided that it would be the best Summer ever, better than last year when her mother took her to the Festival for the first time in her life._

_Finally it was June and Elise convinced herself that she could already taste Summer. But one day, as she escaped her nursery room, she heard the Adults talking about some problem. She didn't understand most of it, but she heard that someone very important in another country was hurt very badly. And because that person was hurt, they were going to take the Festival away from her. Her mother had found her in the hallway soon after, and told her that at least she would still have a brother. She wasn't sure that she'd like a brother now, not when she couldn't have her Festival._

_Then, finally the long-awaited summer arrived, and it was horrible. There was a war outside, and though she didn't know what the word meant exactly, she knew it was very bad, because people were hurting other people, and taking other people's Festival away from them. Then, there was her mother, in her room upstairs, on her back, sweat-drenched and screaming where on earth was the midwife. The maid didn't realise that the door to her mother's room was still a little bit open. Elise could hear her mother swearing, and it must also be very bad because her mother never sweared._

_Meanwhile, her grandfather had arrived earlier that day and made a fortress for himself in the front room. Grandfather was a big bear of a man, and even though he was very old, he was also very scary. And that day was no different. Grandfather Hellstrom was on his feet, pacing nervously, cursing and asking where on earth was his son-in-law and husband of her daughter._

_Everyone in the house was running here and there, and screaming and yelling. Elise wondered if they were also going to take her brother away from her. It would be truly a horrible Summer._

_The sun went down and up again before finally the midwife appeared, haggard and rushed, only to find that her job had been done for her by the next-door neighbour—a full-time butcher and a part-time cook._

_Elise had finally been let inside, to see her mother who looked very tired and asleep, and Elise fell asleep tucked to her mother's side, too. She had fell asleep crying because Grandfather Hellstrom had taken her brother away, just like she was afraid of. Now, there's only her mother, because her father had yet to return._

_When she finally woke up, her father was there, inside the room, and was talking to her mother. She wanted to jump off the bed to greet him, but they were talking very seriously and she pretended to sleep again. "He is your son." She heard her mother tell her father. "Although you'll find it hard to believe. Father wants him to be registered as a Hellstrom. His name is Dieter. Father will not let you see him."_

_Her brother's name was Dieter, and she wouldn't see him. It made Elise very sad and made her wish she had never woken up when she did. "He'll come by to pick me up tomorrow," her mother said again. "And Elise, too."_

* * *

"So Grandfather arrived the next day to pick us up, my mother and me," Elise said, staring at the teacup nestled in her lap. "He gave my father a stack of papers. I didn't know it would be the last time I'd see him. Five months later, my father died. I didn't know it at first, we weren't allowed to go to his funeral. Suicide, that's what I heard. In a whorehouse. To avoid being mobilized, they said. And Grandfather took it as vindication, that he was right all along. That Fritz Schott was a weak, cowardly thing, who cheated and drank and did not deserve being called German."

"Grandfather believes my father was descended from a Scottish gravedigger. An opportunist bastard who came to Germany during the Plague. I suppose it was a good time for business." Both Hugo and Elise turned towards the door and found Dieter striding in, throwing his books carelessly on the side table, almost knocking a vase off its perch. "You'll note that there's not a single picture of him in this house. But if you ever wondered what he would've looked like, you could just look at me. I look like him. That's why he hated me so much."

"Bitterness doesn't suit you, dear brother," Elise said, placing her teacup on the table in front of her and leaning over push her brother's feet of the table. "You'll get into trouble for that," she admonished.

"And how will he know? Unless one of you blab, he wouldn't know," Dieter said, defiantly propping up his feet on the table again. Hugo rolled his eyes, and Elise sighed.

"How was school today?" Elise asked.

"Terribly boring. Dr. Günther asked me what I'm going to do once I graduate. He looked almost affronted when I told him I have no intention to ever graduate. Then he told me that he has already recommended me to join the SS. As a favour to Grandfather, apparently," Dieter said. "Good to know that between the two of them I've got my life all planned out before me."

"They'll put you in a corner somewhere and forget about you, if you're lucky," Hugo tried to cheer his friend up. "Then you'll be free to slip out and have at the ladies. You know how they like men in uniforms. And with your looks, you'll be inundated with requests you'll never be able walk straight ever again!"

Dieter threw Hugo a dirty look. "Don't laugh, Hugo. Dr. Günther told me that he would be happy to write you a similar recommendation. Ha!"

They all laughed then talked shop a bit more before Elise rose to her feet. "Well, I have to go." She disappeared before anyone could greet her good bye.

"She's going to meet her secret lover," Dieter whispered conspirationally. "Grandfather doesn't like the man, even though they've never met. My sister thinks she'll never get married as long as he's still alive. I think she's right."

"They could elope," Hugo said unhelpfully.

"And get hunted down for their troubles? I think not."

"Maybe you're just overestimating the old man."

"I think you haven't lived in this house long enough to know that he was more than capable of doing so," Dieter groused. "Can we not talk about him? It's making me ill."

"As you wish."

"So, shall I ask Dr. Günther to write you a recommendation, too?"

* * *

They joined up just in time for the Summer Olympics. Dieter was accepted on recommendation, even though he failed to complete his studies. He soon found that work was very different from schooling. He even enjoyed his work. Dr. Günther had also written a recommendation for Hugo, as promised, although it read like a generic piece of letter. Hugo had token it back with him to Freiburg. He told Dieter he had some things to do in Freiburg for Tante Frida. Dieter had been irrationally worried that Hugo would abandon him again. But Hugo promised he would return, and he would even let Dieter help renovate his grandparents' flat with him.

"With the risk of sounding like an insipid thing," Hugo had said, "I'll return before you know it. We'll be together forever."

"That sounds disgusting," Dieter had replied. "But thank you."

* * *

True to his words, they met again when they were both in uniforms. Hugo had joined up through the recruitment office in Freiburg but was transferred to Berlin ahead of the Olympic Games. Hugo was right, too: the uniform made all the difference with the opposite sex. But Dieter was too busy being disappointed to notice the women.

"Why didn't you join the SS like we planned to?"

"I didn't. You did. You know I'd go mad sitting behind a desk all day. I can't abide the politics either. Guns, though, they speak a language I understand. Meant what they say, too."

"But the _Heer_?"

"A soldier's life is simple."

"The Waffen-SS then. That's soldiering, too! You can get a transfer, reassignment, something?"

"Just forget it, Dieter. It's done."

They both stared at each other, Dieter in disbelief, Hugo in a silent request to 'let go'. They could still get assignments together, people get seconded all the time. It's impossible for Dieter to become a full-time rough-and-tumble soldier like Hugo, and Hugo would sooner kill himself than tied to a desk. "Will you... will you come by the house? My mother and sister will be delighted to see you again."

"Of course. And you don't have to use them as alibi, you know," Hugo replied. "Saying that you miss me is sufficient."

"Oh, please! As if," Dieter scoffed. "They're wondering at your abrupt leaving. They thought it's something they did. My sister was even worried that you left because of the story."

"If stories about what an arse your grandfather is would drive me away, I would have been driven away a long time ago. I should tell her that I've been thoroughly trained by you. Honestly, you could whinge with the best of them."

"And you are lucky I put up with you slandering me all the time," Dieter remarked, entirely not meaning what he said. "So, what time tonight? I'll need to inform them."

"I can't tonight. Not this week. Duty, you know. But I'm free right now."

"Nobody's home at this hour."

"Well, don't you think we're too old to have your mother chaperone us?" Hugo was already walking to the direction of the Hellstrom home.

* * *

It was a fine day for walking, and with the right companion it could be an enjoyable day, too. Hugo talked about his grandparents' flat and the deeds to it that now bore his name. They argued about renovations and who would do them. Hugo insisted he wanted to do it himself, but Dieter convinced him that the Hellstrom women would insist on being included. Dieter assured Hugo that he wouldn't lift a finger to help, but that he would be supplying the food and beer.

They were just discussing about walls after Hugo admitted that it would probably best to defer to Elisa regarding drapes, when they found out that their path was blocked by a boy.

"Are you lost?" Hugo asked, crouching down to the boy's eye level.

"No, but I have a question for you."

"Is it a difficult question?"

"My mother can't answer, and she's smart," the boy replied. "And you wear a uniform."

Dieter wondered that there was some odd universal law regarding young children and tangential leaps of logic. He leaned against a shop wall, watching Hugo attempting to help the boy. Hugo wouldn't admit to it, but he was rather good with children.

"So what's the question?"

"Are Jews bad?"

Hugo stared at the child. That wasn't a question he had expected. "Why do you ask?"

"Because the police caught my neighbour, and they took my friend, too. They said they're bad people. But my friend and his father have always been nice to me. They never hurt me or my mother like my father did."

So, the 'uniform' remark wasn't quite an odd leap of logic after all, Dieter mused.

"I asked my mother when we went to the park in the evening. She told me a lot of things but I don't understand any of them because they were funny words. We went home and when I woke up again in the morning, she's left. Have the bad people came for her? I want to know because I know this man and they said he's a Jew, and he was with my mother a lot, I want to know if he's hurt her."

Hugo merely stared at the boy, who looked rather worried and distraught. Before he could say anything an old man came to round up the boy, apologising profusely, bowing his head again and again. His grandson, the man said, had always been a rather odd boy with a fantastical imagination.


	5. Chapter 5

The incident with the boy was quickly shoved to the back of everyone's mind by the time they reached the Hellstrom's residence. True to Dieter's words, the women were insuppresibly a-twitter once they found out about Hugo's flat and the work to be done on it. The return of Grandfather Hellstrom stopped their ever-blossoming imagination, quickly, like a pin pushed into a rubber balloon.

Dinner was soon served, and Hugo found himself sitting in a familiar setting. He couldn't help but note how the atmosphere had shifted _a little_. It wasn't a big change, and Hugo did wonder if anyone else other than him recognised it.

"How observant of you," Dieter had said afterwards. They had retreated, escaped to the Hugo's room—the spare room once more—after dinner. "He's a bit less nasty now that he thinks I'm finally living up to my name."

"And knowing you, there's always a possibility of you fucking it up," Hugo said matter-of-factly, which Dieter couldn't fault. There's an unquenchable urge in him to always steer clear from the prescribed script. "I'll help you," Hugo added, softening the blow of his previous words, for he'd really be the last person to state the obvious.

"Of course you will," Dieter replied, staring accusingly into his empty wine glass, as if it should miraculously fill itself up automatically.

"So, finally living up to your name, eh? Oh Warrior of the People."

"Shut up, True Heart," Dieter chided, sighing as he flopped down on the chair in the corner. "That man. He's difficult to please. The uniform helps. The desk job? Not so much." He groped blindly for a cigarette; he was so sure he had a fresh packet in his breastpocket.

"Here."

"Thank you," Dieter said, watched it being lit, watched smoke curling up and around him. "I think he wanted someone like you. A warrior. Hugo 'Gun Speaks My Language' Stiglitz."

"Sorry, wrong pedigree."

"Well, one can't have anything. The Hellstroms were immigrants too, once upon a time. Would it help if I told you Grandfather had you researched? Apparently your ancestors were of good pedigree. Not a drop of Jew blood. He checked. Twice. I know you were worried about that. Upstanding German citizens who fell on hard times. A long time ago, though not as long as my Scottish gravedigging ancestor, they went to Poland to turn their life around. Not much turning there either, I'm afraid to say. So really, you're just returning back to the Fatherland."

"So, acceptable pedigree. Only poor."

"Fortune can be made. Genes are more difficult to change. In an alternative reality you'd be his grandson and I'd be the insipid sidekick."

"I'm insipid?"

"No, I'm just saying, in an imaginary world. And I'm supposed to be the sidekick in that _imaginary_ world."

"In _another_ imaginary world, your mother would be the one naming you. Something nice like Ernst, Franz, or Wilhelm, maybe?"

"I like Max. Maximillian, I mean."

"Maximillian," Hugo repeated. "A good name, that."

"I think so. Maximillian Schott..." he tested the name on his tongue.

Hugo broke into a laughter, sending him sprawling on his back on the bed. "Actually, no. It sounds like a disaster."

* * *

The week following the end of the Summer Olympics, work began on Hugo's flat. The women had complained endlessly about the distance, but turned up as promised every day. It was done by the time Hugo was selected for the _Unteroffizierschule_ (which was a great achievement, according to his superior officer). The women, once Dieter had exhausted himself in explaining how it was a great achievement, were a-twitter all over again.

Hugo sent an accusing look at Dieter, to which he received a pithy smile. A celebration would be thrown for him. It was unavoidable. Both Dieter and Hugo could only hope that it would be something small.

* * *

On the day of the celebration, the women exhibited once again why they were the more insightful half of the race. Hugo, expecting a mob, opened the door to his flat with trepidation. He found just one person standing in front of it and was compelled to look up and down the corridor despite assurances that his guest had come alone.

"Relax, Hugo. It's just me," Dieter said, forcing his way through, walking the most direct route to what was now his most favourite chair in Hugo's flat. "Well, me, and food and drink. A great amount of them."

"Are they imaginary food and drink?"

Dieter merely grinned as he send his car keys arching in the air. "You bring them up. I'm tired."

"Of course, Master." Hugo cleanly caught the key, giving a jaunty salute. Dieter merely waved him away, leaning back against the headrest, closing his eyes.

* * *

Dieter woke up only to find Hugo looking very concerned. "Who died?" He croaked. His throat felt very raw.

"You really are tired," Hugo remarked drily. "Should we postpone the party?"

"What party? It's only food and beer, some wine probably, I doubt my mother packed anything stronger. You don't need whores to eat and drink." Dieter sighed. "Unless you want to. I'm sure it's early enough to still get a good one."

"Not just now, I think," Hugo said. "Eating and drinking is fine by me. Actually I'm starving now."

* * *

"Work bothering you?" Hugo asked. Dieter had had a lot of drinks, had eaten quite a lot, too, but the expected whining hadn't surfaced. Usually, Dieter was an entertaining drunk. Hugo was worried, but he was careful not to show it outwardly. Dieter wouldn't like that.

"Not work, per se... I... I don't want to talk about this." Dieter reached for the box of cigarette lying on the table between them. He stuffed a cigarette to silence himself, before he made a fool out of himself.

"You know you want to."

"I shouldn't," Dieter mumbled around his cigarette.

"Last chance, Dieter. I'll be away to officer school starting tomorrow."

Dieter stared at Hugo for a long time, head slightly tilted to one side. Hugo wanted to say that Dieter looked like a lost puppy, but that might not help the situation. There would be plenty of time later for teasing and playing around.

"Fine," Dieter said after a while. A long while, in Hugo's estimation. He had almost given up. "If only to stop you from pestering me."

"Go on."

"I... I met a man, in a bar. A SS Lieutenant, by the looks of it. An old one. You know them, old people stuck in a rut. He was drunk. I think he's always drunk. He called me 'Herr Hellstrom' and I didn't think about it at first. Then he went on and on about my promise to him, though I've never met him."

"Are you sure you didn't give any drunken promises to anyone?"

"No," Dieter bit out, looking entirely scandalised.

"He said I had promised him a recommendation, for a promotion. He didn't need the rank as much as the pay it would afford him. I told him maybe he had the wrong person. I can't possibly recommend anybody for any promotion, can I now?"

"You did. With me. When you said you'll get me a recommendation."

"No~. That was Herr Doktor himself who offered."

"Then?"

"He insisted he wasn't wrong. He ranted and raved and swore. He had done his job he said. He wanted his payment, and he wanted his promotion. He had received neither." Dieter snubbed out his cigarette and contemplated having another one. Hugo slid it out of his reach. "I took him aside, to the side of the building."

"Well?"

"It was my grandfather. He mistook me for my grandfather," Dieter said slowly, quietly. "I know my grandfather holds a rank in the Stormtroopers. I only just found out how high. He promised the man money and promotion as payment for a task. The man ended up with no money, a sideway transfer, and suspicious attempts for his life. He was finally 'saved' by an SS Colonel, hid amongst the Colonel's personal staff. It wasn't as great as it sounded, either."

"And this task?" Hugo wasn't about to let Dieter go off on a tangent.

"My father didn't kill himself. He was a cheater, a lay-about, a useless husband. But he didn't kill himself. That man murdered him." Dieter rose to his feet and went for the bottle of wine. He turned it up side down to find it empty. "My grandfather had this man kill my father." Dieter replaced the bottle gently on the table on its side. He traced the bottle's label with one finger, as if lost in thought. "And I killed him."

Hugo desperately wanted to do something, say something. But this wasn't what he could've known what to say.

"I killed the man." Dieter turned around to face Hugo. His own face blank and pale. "Smashed his head into the wall. Stabbed him with his own dagger. Again and again and again and again. Had to make sure he's dead you see. Had to make sure he stayed dead. That's how you do it, Hugo. In the neck, behind the head, take out all the nerves and make sure he's dead. He's dead and he should stay that way." Dieter stepped forward, stumbling and tripped on a half-eaten round bread. He twisted his body violently, a move that made Hugo lunge forward in fear that his friend might hurt himself.

Dieter ended up on his back, on the floor, staring at the newly painted ceiling. He could even tell which part of the ceiling _he_ painted personally. It was white, but he saw red. _I've gone mad_, Dieter decided.

"It's a very nice dagger, you know," Dieter repeated. "Do you want it? I think you should have it. I know you don't have one because you _lied_ to me about joining. Not joining, I mean." Dieter struggled for words and Hugo had to bite his tongue to stop him from denying that he ever lied. Not about joining.

"Black-laquered scabbard. Not like the painted shit we get nowadays," Dieter said, sounding like a very inebriated auction-house employee. "I've washed the blood out. Don't worry, nobody noticed. It's clean so you needn't worry about catching some disease from it," Dieter peered up at Hugo, blinking oddly. "Then you'll be an honorary member, won't you be? Maybe a secret one, and I'm the only one who'll know. And it'll be our secret. _You'll_ be my secret. When I see it I'll be able to pretend you hadn't lie to me. And you're loyal. At least you never lied at being loyal. You're more loyal than my Grandfather's bitch of an assistant or Pavlov's slobbering dogs, anyway."

Hugo was relieved when Dieter finally passed out. He didn't know how many more insults he could take, even though he understood that Dieter must be extremely distraught. To be honest, Hugo had always believed that between the two of them, Dieter would end up with the higher rank, but Hugo would be the one with blood in his hand. He would be the last person to call Dieter a coward, but Hugo had never believed Dieter could ever kill someone. A desk job. It was supposed to be a 'safe' job. Then a trophy wife. Then twenty children all named Max.

Hugo stared at the far wall from above Dieter's head. He listened to Dieter's alcohol-drenched snores, deep and measured.

Not this. _Mein gott, not this._ For the first time, Hugo wondered what they had gotten themselves into.

* * *

In the morning, they dressed in silence, backs to each other. Hugo wasn't sure how much of it Dieter remembered, but both of them were good actors if need be. They exchanged a few words, mostly unremarkable, before going their separate ways. Dieter went home with empty food boxes and one solitary unopened wine which Hugo did not want to keep.

When Hugo reported for duty, his superior informed him that his departure had been postponed. The pot-bellied man even took pains to explain that it would be a short delay, something about logistics, and that Hugo shouldn't worry. In fact, he should take the day off and enjoy another day of not being an officer.

Hugo wondered whether he should visit the Hellstroms, to thank the ladies for the wonderful food and drinks. He wouldn't want to be considered an ingrate after all. He stopped by the chemist, just in case Dieter ran out of hangover medication.

* * *

The Hellstrom residence felt more like a house of mourning than anything else. At least that was how Hugo felt when he stepped into the house. Elise had answered the door, her eyes red. She ushered him upstairs all the while apologising for her appearance. She had been out of sorts these past few days, she admitted, following a mighty row with her Grandfather over her yet another poor selection of man. Then, Dieter had returned in such a state this morning.

"I think he'll need you," Elise had said, as she opened the door to Dieter's chamber, her mother looked equally distraught, older and defeated. "He hadn't said anything the whole time."

Hugo would end up staying for ten days, before he finally had to leave for officer school. Dieter had looked better, much better, and they shared a knowing look that, under normal circumstances, would have Dieter teased mercilessly.

It would be another fifteen days before Dieter's first letter to Hugo arrived. It was a short one, a formal one, regretfully informing him that Grandfather Hellstrom had passed away due to a massive coronary. He had passed away rather peacefully in his sleep.

Two months later, Hugo went home on holiday and found Dieter already waiting inside his flat. There's little food and some wine from the women. Over dinner, Dieter dutifully informed Hugo on everything. Elise would marry come Summer, his mother would travel to Geneve.

That night, Hugo placed a dead Lieutenant's dagger on his wall under Dieter's watchful eyes. And after a round of teasing Dieter on his worsening night grooming ("are you trying to replace your sister as Longest Groomer of Berlin?"), Hugo yielded the bed, taking the floor.

* * *

It would be the last time they ever shared a room under peaceful terms. But neither knew that when they finally parted ways. Hugo back to officers' school, Dieter back to his little desk.

As anything else in their lives, nothing stayed for long, especially peace. Elise had barely entered her fourteenth month of wedded bliss when Hitler invaded Poland. Spring arrived only to whisk Hugo away as far as Opoczno, missing a most important godfatherly duty by a mere week. Little Hugo would never see his godfather.

As if in Hugo's stead, Dr. Günther appeared at the christening, congratulating the happy parents, wishing all the best for the baby, and took Dieter aside. He informed his protégé (though Dieter never saw himself as such) that he would move from Berlin to Freiburg. Dieter wished Dr. Günther well and declined the invitation to join him. As the academician left, Dieter congratulated himself for not thinking about Freiburg at all.

When he returned to his little desk, his superior officer summoned him. It appeared that Herr Doktor Günther left a recommendation for one Dieter Hellstrom. Would Second Lieutenant Hellstrom agree to be seconded to Tiergartenstraße 4? Dieter politely asked if there would be a chance for him to be assigned to the General Government in Krakow (hoping no one would discover a connection between the request and a certain soldier already there).

In the end, he was assigned to neither. The same month Sergeant Stiglitz received his Iron Cross, Dieter moved from his little desk to another little desk located in a building on Prinz-Albrecht-Straße 8. It was on this desk that he received the newly decorated hero's psychological report. They said although Sergeant Stiglitz was physically as healthy as he could be—all things considered, he was depleted psychologically, prone to extreme violence and hallucinations. The report recommended extended rest and recuperation away from the front lines.

Dieter knew the report meant Freiburg, with its vineyards and benign student rallies on University Square. Dieter made his own annotations to the report. If the Reich was going to reward Sergeant Stiglitz with rest and recuperation, why send him to Freiburg when France was only a little bit more that way. In France, he would drink milk instead of gorging himself on his aunt's wine.

But France didn't make Hugo better. Far from it. And because Dieter had made the erroneous recommendation, his superiors sent him thither to fix it.

It was the first time they met since their parting all those years ago. They had made it to France. Finally, both of them were firmly planted on French soil. They were in the same room, they were looking at each other. Each of them surprised at the changes in the other.

"Hello, Hugo." Dieter was proud that his voice didn't waver and his face betrayed none of what he was feeling.

_This is all so wrong._


	6. Chapter 6

Dieter held himself upright and inwardly congratulated himself as he walked in a mostly straight line. It was as he sharply turned a corner that his stomach caught up with him. Bile rose to choke him, brought him to his knees. He was belatedly thankful that he had been fortuitous enough to turn into an empty, deserted corner. _Did I really say that?_ He heaved into a corner, but nothing came out of his mouth. Whatever it was, that was trying to come out from the depth of his belly, was stuck in his throat, up into his nose, and he could smell the putrid scent. It burned his eyes, and yet, he could not expel it as he wanted it.

_Play along,_ he had said. _Play along,_ he had whispered. He had not said what he wanted to say, he had not done even half what he wanted to do. He had surprised himself how well he'd learnt, he might have surprised his friend too, at how much he had changed. He now knew how to lay someone against a stake, just so; how to lay whips against someone, just so; and coax the pleasure of the fire that lurked beneath the pain. He recognised the squirming and the screams, he knew enough for his clumsy hands to give an unwanted reprieve. It would still be painful, especially as he knew Hugo tended to sweat a lot. It would still be painful, but Hugo would know a different, darker pleasure beneath it all.

He surprised himself how well his muscles remembered how to.

* * *

The next day, he visited Hugo again. Now no longer hanging from the ceiling like a piece of carcass, but laying on an almost non-existent mattress on the ground. Someone had been kind enough to clean him up, treat the wounds, but Dieter knew that soon enough his superior would be asking for blood again.

The door opened and closed but Hugo didn't raise his face, didn't even move an inch, and for one perverse moment Dieter hoped that Hugo would be dead. Dieter crouched down next to where a line had been gouged out off the heavy stone floor. It was inelegant and crude, and he wondered how that came about. He imagined a one-fingered prisoner clawing his way to an imagined safety.

Dieter let his hand hover above white bandages, unsure of what to say or do. Should he offer comfort or solace, should he ask for forgiveness. Nothing that he could ask, really. So he waited, thus crouched, until his legs had gone to sleep beneath him, until it went past sleep to stick pins and needles up and down his muscles, like liquid fire, but he ignored it.

"You can't be comfortable like that," Hugo said, so low, Dieter didn't think he heard him at first. "Are you trying to punish yourself?" Hugo asked again, now shifting so that his head would turn just enough for his eyes to see his friend.

"Hugo, I..."

"Where did you learn that?"

"Learn what?"

"What you did last night."

"Was it last night?" Dieter asked in a half-laugh. It honestly felt longer than just one night.

"It was. Little Dieter, not so little anymore I see. Who taught you that? I've been away for too long, haven't I?"

"Did it hurt?" Dieter tried to deflect.

"What do you think?"

Dieter winced. Because they both knew what Dieter had also paid for the knowledge. It was a memory that was supposed to stay it was, firmly within a parody of a dungeon in one of his superior's bedroom. It was half-dark and half-light then, not like this dreary place that spelled doom everywhere he looked. There he was safe because of the mute doctor who lived just below the stairs; here? Dieter wasn't so sure. "I don't want it," Dieter said finally. "I didn't want it."

"But you did, and it helped."

"You're not supposed to thank me for what I did to you."

"Who was it?" _Hugo like a dog with a bone._ Of course he wouldn't let it go.

"No one important."

"A friend?"

"You're not going to get schnapps even if you guessed correctly."

"Your superior, then?"

"Maybe."

"Did you get your promotion from there?"

"No!"

"So it's just for fun?"

"I wouldn't call it _fun_, per se."

"So you're a masochist, then?"

"Why do I hear pride in your voice, Hugo?" Dieter asked. But Hugo merely smiled. And how was it that Dieter felt more comfortable being called a masochist than an arse-licker anything? But putting it that way...

"You never accepted promotion from that person?" Hugo asked, breaking silence.

"Wrong division. So wrong it would be odd if he were to recommend me for anything," Dieter replied, before shutting up with an audible click of jaws. "Why am I telling you this?" _What does it tell you? That I sit so far behind a desk I can afford getting myself mutilated every other night? Wenches and one-night hangovers are for soldiers fighting in the front line; while Gomorrah strives in the distance._ Another part of him knew Hugo wouldn't blame him for anything, for the lines he'd learnt to keep hidden beneath layers and layers of finely tailored uniform. But he knew that Hugo would, given the chance. It wasn't too hard after all, to hate him.

Hugo merely chuckled and shifted a little, a silent invitation for Dieter to sit down. His mattress wasn't a lot to write about, but he knew it was better than the floor. And it's warmer, too. Hugo would know. He'd expended a lot of body heat into this small sliver of mattress.

"It could've been worse, you know."

"It will be worse," Dieter said. And after a while's contemplation, added, "You've changed. Why aren't you better? I sent you here so you'd get better."

"Was it you who made the recommendation? I was told someone recommended me to go to France, to drink milk and live easy for a while. They didn't say who." _Why didn't you come sooner?_ Hugo didn't have to ask, Dieter heard it anyway.

"It was a mistake. I should've kept you close."

"You couldn't know," Hugo said with an air of finality about it.

"How could you be so calm!" Dieter roared, jumping on his feet and half-regretting it; as it allowed his blood to restart their circulation through his legs, blood that had been replaced by some scouring agent, he thought. It burnt his veins raw. "They... do you know what they're charging you of? They're even blaming you for that Lieutentant that I killed. For _my_ grandfather. Who knows what other deaths they're blaming you."

"Who cares?"

"_I_ do! Hugo, do you think I'll just let you go down for the things that you _didn't _ do? These punishments..." Dieter said, waving his arms about the room. "These punishments, they're not so you could own up to the crimes. They're doing it because they _can_. They don't even like the officers who died. Good riddance, I heard them say once. In the officer's mess. Major Brandt was a loser, Captain Dijkstra wasn't of Dutch ancestry after all. They had slurs about every one of the officers who died, and they're just blaming you because you're _convenient_."

"And are you?"

"Am I _what_? I'm trying to help you!"

"I don't need it. Maybe they're right. Maybe I did kill them. Half the nights I can see their body, their blood in my hands, their eyes on mine, and I think all of them looked like my grandfather and grandmother."

Dieter stared long and hard at his friend, studying that familiar face twisting here and there. "I can only do so much until the pain gets to you. They're scheduling daily beatings for you now. In the yard, when the weather's agreeble. Inside, when it isn't." Dieter sighed, defeated, slumping sideways against Hugo's thigh on the mattress. He could feel bones and skin, and the harsh fabric around lumpy mattress, and the ground, cold, unyielding. Everything's mocking at him for his incompetence. "Hugo, what should I do?"

"Nothing you don't want to do," Hugo replied, calm and devoid of anything Dieter recognised.

"We've changed, haven't we?"

"No," Hugo said, slowly, drawing out the word. "We've grown up. I know I have."

"Well, I don't want it." Dieter said, climbing to his feet. Steadily now. A step. And Two, And Three. And the door. He turned around to find that Hugo had already shifted on the mattress, his bandaged back to the door. To him. Dieter wanted to say something, _are you giving up on us?_ But in the end, he stayed quiet.

There's a guard now, sitting in the corner that was empty before. Just as well, Dieter thought. It's best to guard every entrance and exit.

* * *

A very young-looking guard was waiting for him as he stepped out, told him that his superior was waiting for him and that he should go directly there. Dieter nodded absently, and was inwardly surprised when the guard followed him up to his superior's claustrophobic office.

"I don't need an escort," Dieter said brusquely, without sparing a glance.

"Of course," the guard replied, but did not slow down, matching Dieter's long gait with this scrambling one.

The door to his superior's office was pushed wide open, and his superior smiled as widely when he saw Dieter approaching. Major Krause was certainly living up to his name, with an unruly curly mop on his head. It was unkempt in a way that would get him stricken back down to Lieutenant if he was anywhere near headquarters, Dieter was sure. But here, he was king of his own little castle, with four little offices and a barely serviceable dungeon of two meagre cells.

The Major stood as Dieter entered without his guard.

"Oh, you were _never_ that young," the Major said as an opening salvo.

"You read my mind, Major," Dieter replied, without missing a beat, standing with his back straight and his eyes level ahead in front of the Major's desk.

"You've met the prisoner again." It wasn't a question. But neither it was a statement. Dieter understood it for what it was. "He was your friend."

"Yes, sir."

"Should I be worried about any conflicts of interest?"

_Did I not whip him bloody last night? Will do so again when you required it of me? _Dieter wanted to ask. But he knew that trying to act smart wouldn't be the right thing to do. But his mouth was itching to say it out loud. He settled with a crisp "No", and added "sir" a heartbeat later.

Major Krause merely smiled, hadn't moved from his spot where he stood, just to the side of the table, half-hidden, half out in the open. The window to the side of the room was small, more of a ventilation duct than something to look at pretty things out of. Not that they would see anything but devastation from that little hole in the wall. It was dark, and Dieter tried very hard not to squint. In the half-light of the room, the Major's smile was all kinds of threats balled together.

"I have read the prisoner's file."

_I bet you have_. "Yes, sir."

"Interesting things your friend has been up to."

_To my eternal regret, I suppose._ "Yes, sir."

"Have you read it, too?"

_Only that I have memorised every little thing there is._ "Yes, sir."

"He is not admitting to anything."

_What is there to admit, really?_

"Can I trust you to continue your work?"

_Which one? You give me new things to do every day, you lazy bugger._ "Yes, sir."

"Very good."

"Am I dismissed, sir?"

"Have I dismissed you?"

"If there's nothing else, I should return to my... _chores_." _You remember them don't you? The files in multi-coloured covers that you insist would help me do my work. As if you know anything about work._

"So eager."

_So eager, so eager, little Dieter_. And he fought with himself to keep his eyes open, not to close his eyes against the piercing ray of sunlight that had wrestled itself through a crack in the wall behind the Major's head. The ray of light that aimed straight at his eyes. He had the feeling that the Major never had the hole fixed just to torment. Just like this. _So eager, so eager, little Dieter_.

"I meant no disrespect, sir."

"Of course you don't," the Major said, with a lazy wave of one hand. "If I ever knew your grandfather, than his grandson would never be disrespectful."

_So, it's about this_. "He knew my grandfather, too."

"I imagined. Any reason why he killed your grandfather."

"He did not kill my grandfather."

"He didn't? The report said otherwise."

"The report is..."

"Wrong?"

"Not wrong, sir. Just..."

"Well, that's why you're here, I suppose. To fill in the holes. The headquarters say you're the best for this matter. And I do not wish to disagree."

_Don't slip up, don't slip up, _the Major didn't say. And the Major didn't wait for Dieter to say anything. And with a curt dismissal, Dieter was sent scurrying back to his own little desk.

He was glad that he was alone, no one to witness him massacring a teacup against a wall. There was only his desk, his chair, the chair opposite him, and the four-drawer cabinet. And even they seemed to be mocking him. _Don't slip up now, little Dieter. So eager, little Dieter_.

* * *

It would be a scene that repeated itself. He would hurt, he would heal, he would come up with plans, he would offer, and Hugo would turn him down. It was like one of those Brunner automata he saw in Berne. Always doing the same thing again and again, day after day, come hail, wind, or shine.

In his nightmare, he would see their future, stuck saying the same lines again and again, until finally Hugo was taken away from him. But none of them knew about it yet. For now, they danced around each other, with leather and blood their only escape into courtship.

In his nightmare—Dieter knew that it was a nightmare because he was reciting an English poem. His grandfather would wash his mouth with soap if he knew. In his nightmare, Dieter would recite an English poem and his grandfather would be alive.

_Lavender blue, Rosemary green,_

In his nightmare, he would see the future, a near future that lurked behind a thick dark veil for the moment, they would transport Hugo around. Like little insignificant bus stops en route to larger, more important ones. A message, at every little stop. Always little places, with smaller rooms and mustier darkness. Each competing to be smaller and dingier than the ones before. Little stops. Little insignificant spectacles ahead of greater ones. One at the camps in Bas-Pyrenees, and a grand one at the Headquarters in Berlin. It would be a parade he never wanted to be a part of.

_When I am king,_

It was his nightmare, an recurrent one. It would be as he had told Hugo. Soon they would not find any sliver of pleasure, only pain. And Dieter would be glad then that Hugo would be too preoccupied feeling excruciating pain to notice anything else_. _

_When I am king,_

In his nightmare, he knew without a grain of doubt the futility of hope. But in his waking daylights he secretly hoped it would not come to pass. But if he knew anything, as he had known everything else, nothing ever went as he wanted it to be. In his nightmare he was too much of a coward, too much of the grandson his grandfather feared him to be.

_Please._


	7. Chapter 7

A loud whoop jolted Dieter out of his reminiscence. Well, he's finally gotten his wish. He's in France now. Has been here for four years, _with only regrets to show for._ But Fate, fickle and cruel as she was, never gave Dieter exactly what he wanted. This wasn't how he had envisioned France to be. He wasn't supposed to force himself to get used to the drunken disorderliness of soldiers in a mildewed basement tavern. He was supposed to meet movie stars at the Ritz, not listening to them play drinking games in said tavern.

He could of course go out and play a game with said actress, it would be something to brag about to other Majors. Playing a drinking game with an actress of von Hammersmark's calibre, and sitting close to her and drinking and probably chatting nonsense. But that would mean also tolerating the soldiers. No.

* * *

Dieter had just gotten used to a better part of his book when the woman soldier made a great deal out of the arrivals of several SS Officers. _The universe must hate the thought of Dieter ever having a quiet, acceptable night out_. He wondered if he should now try to make his accommodations less sparse and more enjoyable. _Clearly taverns are not meant for quiet_.

The newcomers turned out to be von Hammersmark's friends, he learnt. Officers who sounded rather smug, possibly newly appointed to their ranks (a Captain, was it?). They sounded as though had yet to learn the curses that came with middle-management.

To think that he was like that once, all those years ago, what seemed like a lifetime ago, someone else's lifetime.

Something else seemed wrong though, the easy festivity from before had all but disappeared. Usually he would thank them all for finally abandoning their lowbrow entertainment, finally leaving him in peace. However, the uneasy silence, punctuated by small, dampened excitement, bothered him. He discreetly signaled for Eric, under the pretense of a new glass of beer. He only hoped that he wouldn't be too drunk and made an arse of himself in front of the _lesser_ people.

Eric did not come immediately to do his beck and call, however; ignoring Dieter in favour of Fraulein von Hammersmark's three friends. When he finally appeared with a new glass of beer, Dieter would find out that someone had beaten him to the drunken post. The new father. He should've guessed.

Or maybe he couldn't have guessed. His father had been drunk on the night he was born, he was told, but his father's drunkedness had nothing to do with a new son.

_Old history, Dieter_, he tried to remind himself. No sense in beating a horse long dead. And he's above beating a horse now. He's better now.

Eric placed a fresh glass on the table and Dieter immediately grabbed it and drank a good half of it. Well, maybe less than half. He wasn't such a brute, afterall.

"You need something, _Herr Mayor_?" Eric asked, his face was frozen between elation (of having good business in what should've been a slow mid-week night; and a well-known actress to boot) and fatigue (the night's over-excited patrons had worn him down, probably).

"Don't give that man any more alcohol. If he couldn't be bothered about his own reputation, at least the baby should be spared the embarrassment of having an ass for a father."

"Exactly so, _Herr Mayor_."

"Who exactly are Fraulein von Hammersmark's guests? Have they been here before?"

"I don't know. You Germans look the same," Eric replied, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"Sit, Eric," Dieter ordered, pointing at a low chair in the corner of his nook. "You look like you're about to have a migraine."

"Thank you, you're very kind," Eric complied without any fight.

"As if. You were making me ill, looking sick like that." Dieter made a point to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I'm merely making sure that the only person able to make them keep a civil tongue in this tavern will still be alive when I have need of him."

"As I said, you're very kind."

"And you're _French_," Dieter replied, rolling his eyes in exasperation, taking a sip of his beer and returning to his book.

By this time, his theory that new fathers should only be fed milk and undergo a five-week alcohol ban was about to be proven right. There must be a line drawn somewhere, really. Having a newborn could only buy one person so much license anyway, and none of it allowed for impoliteness.

But, scoff at decorum, the new father did, cutting into a conversation between an officer and a gentlewoman. Dieter half-wished one of those snot-nosed officers would give the Soldier a good slap in the face; as he imagined giving one to a certain Private back in Paris.

By the time the drunken soldier had made his request to the esteemed Fraulein von Hammersmark, Dieter finally heard, clearly heard one voice that chilled him straight to his bones: congratulating the new father of a name well-chosen.

* * *

Dieter wondered about the Fates and how unimaginative they could be. Always the same storyline, the repetition of things that threw him off his balance most of the time. The French had a word for it, though he didn't care to remember it just this moment.

Once, there was a bitter boy, exiled through the petty whims of a Grandfather he couldn't please. In his exile, he met with another boy with mad eyes. And they became friends. Now, even though one of them still played the role of the bitter exile, neither were boys anymore, and certainly they could not be friends in the traditional sense of the word anymore.

Ten, fifteen years or so ago, it seemed that they were on top of the world, fearless conquerors of their little corner of the world. They did everything together.

This time, their past seemed like a fairy tale, a grotesque urban legend. They're no longer on top of the world. Quite the opposite in fact, in a tavern at what could pass as the arse end of the world.

But only one thing stayed the same. They will always be together, that much he knew. He also knew that neither of them forgotten anything, their quirks, their obsessions, their codes and safe-words. _Their game_. Dieter also knew that by the time they played their last little game, they would find themselves in hell, with one and the same. _Together_.

Somehow, that thought comforted him. It was irrational, he knew, as he studiously ignored Eric's worried look. _If only I could, if only I could be bothered to, then I would apologise for the mess I'll be causing here at your esteemed establishment_. Ah, the poor unsuspecting people. They'd think that they're invited to the game, when really both he and Hugo could live without them gladly. He wondered idly what game they should play, Hugo and him. Dieter shrugged, he'd think of something.

Dieter straightened his back, had the first genuine smile on his face. Eric would've sworn the Major looked years younger, shedding off stress and resentment in mere minutes. "It will just be like the old times," Dieter told Eric, who in turn merely looked confused.

* * *

When Aldo Raines declared that a British _loo-tenant_ would be coming to "strengthen the numbers, so to speak", Hugo didn't put much thought into it. The American loved to recruit people to his merry Nazi-scalping band, mismatched nationalities all for a common cause. One irrational moment, he even thought that the Brit would be one of those people who trained the Czech agents who went after Heydrich. This kind of person, he would definitely be able to tolerate, he thought.

A few seconds later, he turned his hope down a notch. Maybe this guy wouldn't be so highly accomplished. But, beggars had never been able to choose. Really, he'd accept any kind of help, gladly.

Except...

Never would he have guessed that a ponce would be walking through the doors of their hideout, strutting like a peacock and noisier than a murder of fucking magpies. One glance at Raines and another one at Utivich, confirmed that he wasn't the only one dreaming of various entertaining ways of shutting up this pompous git. This bastard would be the end of them.

"It's not as if things could be any worse," Wicki stage-whispered. Everyone within hearing range rolled their eyes and the Brit ("supposedly very observant," Raines had told them prior to the eyesore's arrival) didn't even notice he was being talked about (or maybe it was just a superior display of a 'stiff upper lip'; sometimes it's difficult to tell).

* * *

_Any worse, indeed_. Stiglitz swore he would never listen to Wicki's words of wisdom ever again.

As evening marched steadily forward, everyone had exhausted themselves groaning and laughing at the Brit and his basement bar plan. Hugo found himself putting as much distance as possible between himself and Hicox, not because he was afraid of the man, but because he was afraid he would lose his temper and _murder_ the insufferable git. _Then_, everyone would be pissed at him for fucking up their mission. But after that, everyone would probably thank him for fucking up their mission. Although, theoretically, he could end up dead in the hands of friendlies, because the replacement for a theoretically dead, stupid Brit was another even stupider and even arsier Brit.

He glanced at Raines and saw that the American was probably also contemplating the same. He looked around the room and saw similar things. Maybe he could go ahead with his murder after all. Actually, theoretically it wouldn't be murder. It would be mercy killing. Hugo would do it quick and painless. Other people would probably torture the bastard first.

The door opened and let the chill from the outside world seep through, cutting his murder fantasy short. _Just when it's about to get to the good part, too_. He looked up at the small clock on the wall and growled at it. There's still forty minutes left to wait. He swore it was forty minutes, half an hour ago.

It was Donowitz who walked in, grinning as he sometimes did when he managed to think up something clever as he pissed. Donowitz pissed a lot, even though Hugo barely saw him drink. Hugo often wondered whether it was a good idea to ask Donowitz to get his plumbing checked. But he never did. Because Donowitz was often most entertaining after a good piss.

"So, here we go," Donowitz said as he leaned against a wall. It was difficult to find an empty space in this small room. And the Brit was taking up valuable space by demanding a corner just for his things.

"Cigarette?" Omar cut in, ready to throw _their_ last cigarette at the man who was slowly sliding down the wall, trying to find a comfortable spot.

"Later," Raines interrupted. "Let's hear if he's got anything good to tell us. That's our last one, and I'm going to have him earn it."

"Fuck you, Chief," Donowitz said, grinning, snatching the cigarette from Omar's outstretched hand. "It's a walking-into-a-bar joke."

Wicki dutifully provided the flame, and Donowitz mumbled a "fanks" as blue-white smoke wafted up, all the cigarette-addicts in the room sighed wistfully. Donowitz smiled impishly, sparing a glance at each of them.

"You'll love it," Donowitz said to the leader of their merry little bloodthirsty-band.

Hugo watched both men and wondered if there wasn't just some friendly camaraderie between them. He wanted to ask, to confirm his suspicions, not just because he had a wonderfully vivid imagination, but also (and maybe most unfortunately) he might just had the same thing all those years ago.

He didn't pay much attention to Donowitz's story, joke, whatever. He was busy playing what-ifs with himself, building compelling things with his imagination, even though he knew he had lost the right to question anything that Fate made him do. He was a soldier now. Obeying orders was what he should do.

Resigning himself to second-hand smoking, he convinced himself that he had no regrets, because indeed, he had none.

* * *

They had finally left the dingy room, crossing over to the deathtrap of a rendezvous point. The cool night air had even managed to shut the Brit up, at least for the moment. The streets were quiet and the crescent moon floated lazily above them. _Maybe we won't die tonight_.

* * *

_What was it again, something about feelings too hastily decided upon?_ They were often wrong. More often than not. He should've known the silence of the streets was less of an easy one marking a piece-of-cake mission but more of the calm before the almighty storm. He should've known the crescent moon wasn't so much as a lazy bastard as it was actually smiling at their untimely and possibly gruesome demise in the very near future.

As they descended the spiral staircase, the noise of a drunken revelry rose up to meet them. And there was no mistaking the language either. _That sure as hell ain't French_. It amused Hugo that his conscience sounded like Raines. Rough, uncultured Americanism. Hugo felt like he was a traitor even more, though he actually felt good about it.

Stepping off the final step onto worn stone floors, Stiglitz had the sinking feeling that they would never leave this place alive.

_"A British spy, a German traitor and an Austrian Jew walk into a French basement bar. Inside they meet a German actress turned spy..."_


End file.
